


Jitterbug

by CyborgCinderella



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Aged Up, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Class Differences, Dacing, Disguise, F/M, Flappers, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, Jazz Age, Masquerade, Miraculous Ladybug Love Square, Multi, POV Third Person, Paris (City), Slightly - Freeform, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-03-20 18:52:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13723866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CyborgCinderella/pseuds/CyborgCinderella
Summary: Paris in the height of the jazz age. Societies young elite are dancing the night away in the cities shady underground clubs to the sweet sound of jazz, while Marinette is suck up to her elbows in flour, working her life away.As Marinette finds herself introduced into this bohemian world and a suave man in black on the dance floor, she finds herself caught between this glamorous night-time life and her longing after the clean-cut son of her favourite designer who only knows her stuck behind a counter.





	1. Chapter 1

When Marinette woke, the sky still held traces of the night. Stars were still visible in the darkness, even as the sun bleached the sky in dawn. Through the cracked and buckled window nestled in the rafters, she watched frosted pane turn from indigo to grey-blue and counted down the minutes she would be left alone in the blankets of her cot. She could hear the bustle of her mother on the floor below, and even up here, she could sense the ever-present smell of fresh bread, the fruits of her father’s labour. There was no doubt that he had been up since before the sun had even set on the opposite side of the world. To him, her early mornings were a luxurious sleep-in.

She could hear her mother’s steps on the rickety staircase that led to her room, and still could not force herself to stir. It wasn’t until the blankets were ungraciously ripped from her frame that she opened her eyes, emitting a hiss as goose bumps rose along her skin. The peaceful smiling face of her mother smiled down at her, blankets in hand.

“ _Time to wake, daughter_ ,” she said briskly in mandarin, folding the blankets and placing them at the foot of Marinette bed, too far from reach to be grabbed back, “ _you must help your papa this morning, there is_ _no time for sleeping the day away_.”

Marinette sighed, but willed herself to rise from her mattress; there was no point in voicing her opinion that the day generally required for the sun to be in the sky. Her mother’s opinion was that it began when you woke, and the earlier the better to get more work done. She swung her feet from her bed in a creaking of springs and hissed as they touched the cold, unvarnished floor. Even now in late spring, the air in her attic room was cold enough that Marinette’s breath misted as she forced herself over to her washstand. A splash of ice-cold water to the face was all it took to scare away the last vestiges of sleep, and hurry her into her layers of clothing, the faster to be warm.

Still, she reflected, as she struggled with her girdle, as cold as it was, at least she didn’t have to crack the ice on her water to wash anymore; summer was on the way. Soon the sun may even have risen by the time she was expected to wake, and she needn’t wear so many layers that she felt like a swaddled child. She may even be able to style a nice outfit if she got the time, and cloth. There was little room for fashion when she had to work every day to stay warm. Her old wooden manikin had remained covered in the corner of the attic for most of the winter, unused as her room got too cold to work in and hiding her last experimental piece as she turned to layers to stay warm. But she could see it coming out of hiding and being in pride of place once again, soon. Hurriedly pulling on her boots, Marinette smiled as she headed downstairs to the warm, ready to see what the day held for her.

* * *

It was well into to the day, that is to say, ten in the morning, by the time Marinette saw a face she knew. The bell of the bakery chimed as Ayla bounced though the door in a whirlwind of greetings and siblings clinging to her skirts. Her hair pinned to mimic the bob the more daring kind of models wore, Ayla always looked on the verge on bohemian, even in the sombre work clothes she had to wear as a secretary at the local newspaper’s office.

“Mari!” she called, over the voices of her sisters begging for iced buns, “I know you’re in there somewhere, come out!”

Laden with a tray of freshly baked bread, Marinette appeared from the kitchen, sweat still beading her brow from the heat of the ovens.

“Ayla, I should have known it was you, I hear the children screaming from release from their captor!” she said, setting her heavy tray on the polished counter and smiling at the children now peeking over the edge.

“I wonder if some kind of nourishment is required to stop their cries?” she asked with a coy smile, causing the girls to giggle, eyes glittering as they bounced in excitement. As if by magic, she produced two buns from behind her back, which were immediately pounced upon by her eager audience. Ayla rolled her eyes with a smile.

“You let them play you for sweets, Mari, but- “she leaned over the counter in conspiracy- “that is not why I came here.” From her pocket, she pulled a rumpled newspaper clipping, ripped from the days paper. In bold font, plastered above of a black and white blurred image of a thin-faced, stern-looking man in wire-rimmed glasses, a title proclaimed: AGRESTE AND SON TO MOVE TO PARIS.

“Agreste… the designer?” Mari asked, as if she didn’t know. She had poured over his designs in every second-hand magazine Ayla had been able to wrangle from the office. He was the talk of New York, and now he was coming here!

“Yes, THE Agreste, isn’t it exciting? To this very city! Perhaps you’ll meet him someday, Chica!” Ayla said, grinning excitedly. Marinette laughed, the thought so outrageous she couldn’t help but roll her eyes.

“If I ever get to leave this bakery for long enough to make anything worthy of wearing in front of him!” she scoffed, and though Ayla laughed with her, she ended it with a look that let her know she wouldn’t let it go.

“Your designs are worthy, my friend, but-” her best friend gave a warning nudge as the steps of Marinette’s mother approached. The ritual pantomime of Ayla buying a loaf of bread was preformed, and pleasantries exchanged between Marinette’s friends and mother in broken French and mandarin. Despite Ayla’s bohemian ways, Marinette’s mother approved of her and the sheer amount of bread she seemed to buy each day. It was a wonder she never noticed how many loaves Ayla “forgot” behind her, and how the franc she paid with was handed back to her as change. But as Ayla had said before, the mind does not worry about what the eye cannot see.

After Marinette’s mother had once again disappeared up to the higher floors, Ayla leaned on the counter again, and Marinette did the same, settling into the much-used position of gossip to be exchanged.

“But the real reason I called by today is to talk about his son.”

“His son?” asked Marinette, a bemused frown crossing her features. Ayla nodded, pushing up her small, round glasses knowingly.

"Adrian. He’s moved here early to get a feel for the city before the season, and you’ll never guess, but…Nino is his chauffeur!”

“Really! How lucky for him!” said Marinette, she could see why Ayla was excited. As her beau, Niño was a direct link to information about the Agrestes’; a channel she could use to start her journalistic career.

“Lucky for _all_ of us you mean,” said Ayla, lips twitching in a wry smile, “I told him to recommend this bakery as the finest in Paris, so you may be seeing him sometime soon!”

“You did _what?!_ ” yelped Marinette, as her friend laughed, “what if he comes in and I’m all sweaty, or my mother is on the till, or, or it’s flour-delivery day, you know how dusty it gets in here…”

Alya chuckled as her friend rambled on, herding her siblings to the door and out into the street. Leaning back through the doorway she waved a carefree hand at Marinette, still mumbling nervously behind the counter.

“Don’t worry ma Cherie,” she said, with a playful grin, “I’m sure you’ll dazzle him with your inner bohemian chic!” With a wink and a wave, she was gone, the bell heralding her departure as it had her arrival, and leaving Marinette staring after her in a mix of confusion, nerves, and anticipation. For what, exactly, she wasn’t sure.


	2. Sweet and Sour

Marinette’s head spun as she fought through the crowd of customers to get to the door of the bakery. In the heat of early summer, the seating area outside her parent’s bakery was packed full of happy Parisians soaking up the sun with coffee and croissants. The tables and chairs lining the sidewalk threatened to spill onto the street, and it was a fight to get through them to the bakery itself. More so if your arms were laden with dishes and you were stopped every ten seconds to take another order for coffee, anther for “one of those flat things with the chocolate, you know the ones, don’t you?” And constantly, _constantly_ , people she knew stopping her to chat.

Finally, with arms shaking under their towering load, she reached the darkness of the shop itself. On sunny days like these the tiny inside of the bakery was usually quiet, with a few, more elderly customers sitting at the tiny tables as they quietly chatted over their pastries or read the newspaper. The peaceful atmosphere was a blessed contrast to the exuberance outside.

Arms now screaming at her, Marinette maneuverer behind the counter with difficulty, desperate to dump these on Manon, who was manning the sink today, a job she did not envy. It was just as she stepped though the doorway that the sound of the ruckus outside swelled and dropped rapidly within the shop as the door was opened, the sound of the bell hidden in the cacophony of laughter and voiced from outside.

 “Just a moment, please,” she called, and she hurried to the sink to dump the dishes, to Manon’s dismay, and wash her hands free of sugar powder and coffee. As she was shaking her hands free of the icy water, there was a commotion on the stairs, and her mother rushed to the doorway, looking flustered.

“Maman?” Marinette asked, switching to mandarin when she didn’t respond, “ _Maman, what’s wrong_ ”

Tom looked up from kneading a lump of bread dough half the size of his small wife, concern crossing his kindly face.

“My dear? Are you alright?” he said, taking in his wife’s strange expression. Unresponsive, Sabine hurried across the room, gesturing to Marinette to follow. She stopped just short of the door and peeked into the shop. Behind her, her daughter and husband exchanged confused glances.

“ _There is a very fancy_ ,” she switched from mandarin to French mid-sentence, as she often did when speaking to both her husband and child at once, “motor outside, I’m sure I saw at least of one of the people in it on in the paper recently...” She peeked through the door again, and then turned to Marinette, abruptly coming to her senses.

“Cherie, you have flour on your cheek,” with a deft movement, she brushed off her daughter’s face, and then her straightened her apron, and tucked a stray hair behind her ear.

“Now, go out, and be hospitable” she said, steering Marinette through the door.

Marinette stumbled over the threshold and tried to put on the smile she had seen her mother reserve for their best customers. 

“Good afternoon, what can I do for…” she trailed off as she saw, still standing just inside the door, a pair of angels. Clad in off-white and cream, both  blondes were clothed in the latest Parisian fashion. They looked dressed for a garden party, the young man in an immaculate linen suit, the fit of the jacket accentuated with tiny green pinstripes, that Marinette couldn't help but notice as he approached, perfectly matched his eyes. The girl on his arm was, in Marinette’s mind, probably the most sophisticated person ever to set foot in the bakery. Face hidden in shadow by the rim of her closh hat, she was the image of dainty in a low waisted day dress, creamy yellow lace panelled along the side and forming the short sleeves. The little hair she could see from beneath the brim of the hat was in perfect marcel waves, gleaming in the sun almost as brightly as the long string of pearls wrapped around her neck.  For a moment, Marinette thought she had never seen anything as beautiful as the girl’s ensemble. That is, until her counterpart stepped forward and smiled at her.

All at once, Marinette’s world shrank to that smile, and the way it seemed to catch the light. It was in invitation to talk, to smile along with it, to look up into the eyes that twinkled above it. And look she did, despite the risk of drowning in them.

In a few easy strides the handsome youth had reached the counter. Casually, he leaned on it, as easy and comfortable as Ayla would be on any given morning. He beckoned to Marinette as if he wanted to share a joke, an unknowable glint in his eye. Still mesmerised, she dimly realised that that beautiful smile was parting, that the boy in front of her was about to speak, and she took a deep breath. trying to pull herself and her rapidly-dissolving mind together. Already feeling a blush crawling up her neck, she bent towards him too, trying to maintain the air of a gracious shopkeeper instead of the goofy smile she could feel working across her face.  She didn’t lean against the counter as casually as he, but she was glad she had at least a hand on it, because her knees threatened to buckle on her when he finally spoke.

“I have been informed that this bakery is the best in all of Paris,” he said, his voice as charming and confident as his smile. His words were tinged with an American accent, and with a glace over his shoulder, he continued, “And from what I can see from outside, it seems pretty popular, at least.”

Marinette swallowed, trying to quell the flush f red she could feel crawling up her neck. _‘Words, Marinette, use your words!’_ she thought dimly, but her tongue felt slow and heavy.

“I-I, uh, W-well, err...” Marinette could feel some semblance for her sane self-screaming faintly as she tried to force her lips to form coherent words. “AHEM, I-I mean, Welcome t-to Dupain boulangerie patisserie!” she finally managed to squeak and gave a silent prayer of thanks as her brain finally started supplying words of the familiar script, with only a minor stutter in the face of this attentive golden god.

“You flatter us, s-sir,” she said, even managing a weak smile as her mouth carried on its own accord, “  p-please, time anything you’d like, take your try to choose!” she babbled, and there was  a heartbeat in which her brain caught up with her mouth, and resulting in Marinette’s face to burn hotter than a bread over. For his part, the man before her hid any confusion he had beneath a kindly, well-bred smile, and Marinette felt her heart thud as he spoke again.

“Thank, you miss…” he paused, and raise a polite, inquiring eyebrow at her in question. Brain still struggling, Marinette stared dumbly at him for a moment before her moth tripped into gear.

“M-Marinette, p-p-please to muh-meet you,” she manged, nervously tucking a hair behind her ear as he smiled warmly at her. “A-and you are?”

“HAH, well _that’s_ something!” a snide voice cut into the dreamy world Marinette had entered, attached to the girl in the oh-so elegant clothes. However, the face Marinette once thought pretty was scrunched into a sneer, bright blue eyes hard and mocking.

“Adri-kins did you hear? This stupid shop girl doesn’t even know who you _are_ ,” she laughed scornfully, her fingers fluttering playfully against his chest as she tucked her arm back under his, pulling him away from the counter. The other blonde seemed uncomfortable with this sudden close contact and looked at his companion confused. Eyes glittering maliciously, she turned to Marinette, but still addressed her captive when she spoke.

“ _Imagine,_ being such a sap that you don’t realise when _Adrien Agreste_ walks into your miserable little shop!”

‘Adrien Agreste…. ADRIEN AGRESTE?’ Marinette’s world suddenly gave a great lurch and she clutched the counter a bit tighter as the turmoil in her mind rose a fell in a sudden crescendo.

_‘Adrien Agreste… son of the designer that I’ve idolised MY WHOLE LIFE?’_

Adrien, for his part seemed abashed, suddenly less confident in the clutch of his… ( _‘friend? Sister? Oh, please let it be sister,’_ Marinette pleaded with the universe.)

“Chloѐ,” he said quietly, a soft frown forming as he glanced from her to Marinette, “there’s no need to be rude, you can’t expect everyone in Paris to know me.” He looked back to Marinette, who once again felt her cheeks burn as he gave her an apologetic smile. Chloѐ merely snorted, raising petite blonde eyebrows in disbelief.

“Oh Adri-kins, you do joke! everyone who is _anyone_ knows who you are _._ And this shop girl clearly isn’t…anyone.” she said, looking Marinette dead in the eye as she lingered over the last word.

Marinette flushed again, but this time the emotion that roiled within her was darker and pushed words to her lips instead of starving her of them, but it seemed Chloѐ wasn’t done. Lips twisted in a sneer, Chloѐ gestured to the humble bakery around her.

 “Look at this place! It’s so lowly I’m surprised it’s still running! They must really not care for their employees…” at this point, Marinette couldn’t help but blink, incredulous. What was this girl attempting to do? Rile her up by claiming they were a failing business, in open defiance of the crowd they must have fought though to get in the door? Marinette was too sure of her family and their business to be angered by some child having a tantrum. She resolved to smile though the rest of tirade when Chloѐ dramatically raised a hand to her mouth and stage-whispered to Adrien in a voice that could easily reach Marinette and any other patrons of the shop.

“I mean, look at what she’s _wearing_ ”

Marinette saw red. She did not live, breathe and sweat fashion to be insulted by some rich brat for wearing a working uniform! 

“I’ll have you know that I’m wearing working clothes, though I doubt you’d recognise them as you’ve obviously never worked a day in your life!” the words were spilling from her mouth before she knew it, and she found malicious glee in Chloe’s scandalised gasp as she ploughed on, words almost tripping over themselves in their effort to be heard.

“In fact, I think the only work you’d be fit for is staying out of the way on a chaise lounge, and hopefully it won’t collapse under the weight of your ego!” she finished and promptly clapped a hand over her mouth in an effort to stop it running of its own accord. Chloѐ, on the other hand, looked on in shock, blue eyes wide and dazed, perfect lips slightly ajar. Then her face snapped back into seething, embarrassed rage. She pointed an immaculate finger at Marinette, pushing so close she went cross-eyed to keep it in sight.

“You have _no idea_ who you’re talking to,” she hissed, her eyes promising a thousand deaths to Marinette, starting with impalement upon her perfectly manicured nails. Abruptly she turned and tugged on Adrien’s arm, breaking her withering stare to gaze up at him with hurt eyes, lips forming a wobbling pout.

“Did you hear what she said to me, Adrien?” she whimpered, her voice sickeningly sweet, even to someone who lived and worked in a patisserie, “I can’t bear to stay in such an _awfu_ l place, let’s go.”

Adrien, who’s expression had grown into one of slightly-amused bewilderment, pulled his arm gently from hers, and gestured back to counter and the beautiful display of cakes it held.

“But, Chloѐ, we haven’t even bought anything,” he said simply, as if the heated exchange between the two girls had never taken place. Chloѐ looked at him in disbelief, suddenly adrift in the centre of the floor without the security of a handsome arm to hold.

A pale pink flush rose to her cheeks as she realised he wasn’t going to take her side in this, and her dainty, gloved hands formed into fists.

“Adrien!” she whined, signalling with a jerk of her head that he was supposed to follow her lead. Adrien simply raised his hands in a shrug, and Marinette had to bite back a smile as Chloѐ stamped a kitten heel in frustration.

“Fine, buy your greasy pastries then!” she snapped, turning in a swirl of lace and pearls and flouncing towards the door, “I’ll be in the motor.”

 Her dramatic exit only somewhat marred by the jolly tinkling of the bell over the door, and the fact that, immediately after her departure she popped her head back in, to issue a final demand;

“And if you don’t get me some raspberry macaroons I’m leaving you behind!”   

The two watched the door swing shut for a final time, silence settling back over the scene as the patrons returned to their newspapers and gossip, an obviously fresh topic to discuss after Chloe’s display. Marinette couldn’t help but bite back a chuckle, and it was only when she met Adrien’s eyes and the humour sparkling within them that she cracked and let loose a giggle.

Adrien chuckled along with her, ending it with a rueful shake of his head, glancing back to the door as if wary Chloѐ was about to barge back in.

“I apologise for my...cousin... she is a little protective of me,” he said his weary smile telling her that this wasn’t the first time he had had to apologise for such an outburst.

_‘But…cousin, hmm?_ ’ Marinette quashed the sly though that slid into her copiousness as she registered those words, trying to focus on maintaining a coherent conversation that she knew was coming to an end.

“No, it is I who should apologise,” Marinette said, amazed at how easily words were coming to her now, with the adrenaline still pumping through her blood. It _did_ help if she didn’t look at his face, though she hoped that he would assume she was being humble by looking away, and not realise she was desperately staring at the croissants as she tried to focus.

“It wasn’t my place to explode like that,” she manged to glace at his face again quick enough for him to flash her a smile and her heart to stutter as he did so, “I-I hope that I didn’t discourage you from visiting us again…”

Adrien gave an easy shrug, “Honestly, it was somewhat refreshing to see her not get her way for once,” he said, and then touched a hand to his lips, as if the words had come unbidden. He looked to Marinette with a guilt-tinged smile and carried on, “Anyway, I shall have to see if these pastries are worth Chloѐ being angry at me if I return,”

With a sudden rush of confidence, Marinette grinned, and shook out a paper bag in preparation.

“If it all depends on the pastries,” she said, finding it in herself to give him a proper look in the eye, “Then I should be seeing you again soon Mr. Agreste, as my papa’s baking is truly the best in all of Paris!”

Adrien grinned back at her, eyes following her hands greedily as she picked the choicest of pastries from their racks, including a wide variety of freshly-baked treats (and a few raspberry macaroons for a certain brat.)

She gave the neck of the bag a deft twist with a practiced hand before handing it to Adrien, who took it with a grateful grin. He began to fumble in his coat pockets but Marinette waved it away.

“It’s on the house,” she insisted, casting her eyes down again under the pretext of brushing away some crumbs. It was Adrien’s laugh that jerked her eyes back to his.

“Well in that case, I simply have come back here,” he said, and she couldn’t help but notice how his blonde hair caught the light as he nodded goodbye.

“Please do,” for what seemed like the countless time in their conversation, the words sprung from Marinette’s mouth, and she felt her fingernails grind into her palms as she resisted the urge to cover her burning face with her hands.

But Adrien merely smiled and gave one final wave as the bell over the door once again rang out as he departed. Marinette watched his form get lost in the frosted glass and still stood staring until she heard to motor kick on and pull away from the shopfront. It was only them she left go a breath she wasn’t aware she had been holding and let her hands crawl up over her eyes.

_‘Oh, Marinette, I guess we’re adding unlucky in love to the rest of the list, huh?’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh jeeze it really has been too long since I've written...  
> Good dialouge flow?!?! I dont know her.  
> Anyway I'll probably rewrite this at some point, but I needed to update.  
> If you've stuck it out this far, Congrats!  
> And thank you for reading,  
> ~CC


	3. The Heir and the Chauffeur

The warm and bustling streets of Paris grew quieter as the sun sank lower in the sky. Once the lamps upon the Eiffel tower were lit, the city truly came into its own. The air was heavy and warm, the sweet twilight often punctuated with laughter of bouts of music as the nightlife began to stir. Groups of young people poured from overstuffed motors, beads and cufflinks winking in the gaslight as they giggled and stumbled into the dim and smoky bars that called to them in the intoxicating language of jazz.

In the centre of town, the imposing bulk of _Le Grande hotel_ was still as bustling as ever, lights lit from the grand lobby to the penthouse. In the shadow it threw over the street a motor sat idling, as it had for the past several hours. Inside, Nino dozed, cap and glasses discarded next to him, necktie loosed from its knot. He had been told to wait, and he intended to. His first week on the job and he wasn’t going to try anything, even if it meant losing all feeling in his ass. He had deposited Mr Agreste and Miss Bourgeois just as the sun was setting and been assured by a guilty-faced Mr Agreste that he would be “only a few moments.”

Now, Nino wasn’t one to judge, but as the last of the lights in the lobby winked out, he thought it safe to say that this was considerably longer than a few moments. He was only thankful that Ayla’s mother had heard about him waiting out here and had sent a scullery maid out to him with a hearty sandwich for dinner, or he would’ve been wasting away at this point. With a sigh he shuffled down deeper into his seat and tucked his hands under his arms. At least it was summer, and he hadn’t anything to fear from waiting out in the motor except for a stiff neck.

* * *

It was long after midnight when Adrien slid onto the cool leather seats of the motor. Lahiffe started, awaking from his doze against the wheel as the door shut, and hastened to replace his cap and glasses.

“I-I’m sorry, sir, I should’ve have gotten the door,” he stuttered, glancing guiltily at him in the rear-view mirror.

“Don’t apologise, Lahiffe,” Adrien said with a sigh, leaning back as he ran a hand through his hair, mussing it free from the pomade, “I didn’t expect to end up staying so late, but Chloѐ kept pouting every time I tried to leave.”

“If you say so sir,” Lahiffe answered, giving Adrien a good-natured smile, which he replied wearily.

Adrien tugged at the tie around his neck, popping his collar open as Lahiffe pulled onto the road, and closed his eyes as the gentle sway of the car lulled some tension from his shoulders. He felt guilty for making his chauffer wit so long, but Chloѐ had been insistent, ordering champagne that he consistently turned down and yelling at her poor maid as she became clumsy with the drink. He had left once she became too inebriated to cling to his arm any longer, in the care of her red-headed maid. He was worried about his childhood friend, but she seemed to have ideas about their relationship that he had no intention of entertaining.

 _‘Although_ ’, he thought, _’ sneaking from her hotel so late at night was bound to stoke some press fires if anyone saw me.’_ With a sigh squeezed the bridge of his nose as if he could prise out his tiredness.

In the front seat,Nino once again looked into the mirror, soft brown eyes creasing slightly in sympathy at the exhausted figure slumped in the back seat. As the motor wound its was though the silent streets of Paris, he was tempted to break the silence. He may have to address him as ‘sir’, but the boy behind him was the same age as himself. In fact, he had spent most of this first week toting Adrien from one party to another and knew first-hand the lavish lifestyle he was living. However, for whatever reason Nino felt not envy, but pity for this man who had every move planned for him, every moment and day scheduled from the moment he woke to when his head hit the pillow. He was being primed to be a successor of his father’s business and fortune, and since the moment he had stepped off the boat he was being ferried from one influenceable meeting to another. He was a walking advertainment for the Agreste brand, and as lowly as his own job was, Nino didn’t think he’d jump at the chance to switch places if he was offered.

“Sir…?” he asked cautiously, and felt a twinge of regret as he saw Adrien’s head jerk from the couch as if he had been on the verge of sleep, “I know it’s not my place to say but… you seem pretty run of your feet… Are you always this busy?” Adrien cocked a head at this question, as if he had never been asked it before.

 _‘I’ll take confused over angry any day,’_ Nino thought thankfully as his trepidation at asking melted away. Adrien sat up and actually looked Nino in the eye, meeting his gaze in the rear-view mirror.

“More of less…huh…, y’know, Lahiffe, that’s the second time that someone’s said that to me today.” He said, leaning forward so that his forearms leaned against the top of the front seat.

“Said what, sir?” Nino asked, keeping his eyes on the road even as he was aware of the unusual closeness of his employer.

“‘Not my place’…what do you mean by that, Lahiffe?” Nino couldn’t help but raise his eyebrows that that, and even chanced a glance over his shoulder to see if he was being serious. The earnest gaze that met his told it all. Huh, how could he put this?

“Well, sir, I’m not sure how it is in the Americas, but here in Paris at least, there are certain sets of rules that people follow.” He glanced at Adrien to see if he was following and choked, he was grinning like a cat. Obviously, this upper-class boy knew the rules of hierarchy and his place in it. There was a moment of tension as their eyes met once more in the mirror. Then both boys let out a chuckle and it dissolved like butter.

“You got me, sir,” Nino said with a smile, one Adrien returned easily. However, it didn’t linger long, fine blonde eyebrows creasing over a thoughtful gaze.

“Yes, the rules … in America at least it’s a little less strict but…” Adrien flumped back to his seat, hands gesturing aimlessly.

“Sometimes it just feels…suffocating, you know?” he glanced warily in the mirror and continued, “There’s only a certain amount of people I am allowed to be around, and I can’t even be myself around them!” Nino’s raise his eyebrows again, but this time it was more thoughtful. It never occurred to him that the upper class could feel sifted in the luxurious life they lived but after seeing the life that his backseat passenger lived for a week he could truly believe it. With a sigh, Adrien leaned forward again, watching the road alongside Nino.

“And here, it’s always “Mr. Agreste” … I never thought I’d miss my own name.” Nino hummed in agreement.

“I know the feeling sir, I am Lahiffe to you and those of you who sit in the back seat, but whenever I hear it I just think of my father.” It was a throwaway comment, but Nino felt the boy next to him stiffen in stature for a moment. The next few minutes passed in silence as the motor began to enter the wider, brighter streets that heralded the elite of Paris homes. Adrien was staring at the streets unseeing, deep in thought, but resolution formed on his face as the Agreste mansion walls came into view.

“Well, Lahiffe, let me propose something to you,” he said, eyes glittering as they drove past gaslamps, “for the sake of both our self-worth, while in this car, or if it’s just us, we can drop these formal names that belong to our fathers.” Nino looked at him warily, for any tell-tale signs of a prank, but once again was met with an earnest smile. He returned with a slightly crooked one of his.

“Well, then,” Adrien continued as they pulled into the well-maintained gravel of his driveway, “I feel new introductions are in order.” He stuck his hand over the leather car seat, in an offer to Nino. “Hello, I’m Adrien,” he said, and couldn’t help but grin as Lahiffe bemusedly took his hand, “and you are?” Nino found a goofy grin working onto his face too as he replied.

“Name’s Nino, it’s nice to meet you Adrien.” They looked at each other again as their charade ended, and both collapsed into laughter, the sound washing away any trace of awkwardness left between them. Such laughter was hastily quelled as the familiar imposing bulk of Adrien’s Valet approached. Nino jumped from the car to open the door, but the huge man beat him to it, and shot him with a look that told him he should’ve got there soonert.

Slowly Adrien left the motor, reluctant to leave the bubble of informality and friendliness and enter his house of marble floors and absent joy. But nonetheless he drew himself up and followed his caretaker into his cage. He had a last burst of happiness though as he glanced over his shoulder and saw Nino wave a friendly salute before he ducked back into his seat, and the heavy doors pulled closed for the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Sorry for the wait, thanks for hanging on!  
> This chapter was supposed to about something else but I wanted to establish Adrien and Nino's friendship first.  
> huh, the "Heir and the Chauffeur" is a good name for a forbidden romance AU don'tcha think?  
> Thanks for reading and please, if you like it, let me know!!  
> ~CC

**Author's Note:**

> WHoo!! Setup for the first fic I've done in ages, but just couldnt RESIST starting! I think I even have a decent subplot for this so hopefully i can keep the updates faIRLY regular. No promises though!!  
> I hope you stick around, thanks for reading!!  
> ~CC


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